


only one i know

by heavensgate



Series: take my hand, crush it up [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Dick Pics, Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Just the usual angst that comes with hiatus fic but it ends as happy a hiatus fic could bc im baby, M/M, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Soul Punk, wait okay there is maybe a bit of plot because i couldnt help myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24218197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensgate/pseuds/heavensgate
Summary: Patrick has sent three imagesPatrick:would you like to hear my voice?or drunk and horny from the backseat of his sorry excuse of a tour van, Patrick calls Pete while he’s touring for Soul Punk.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Series: take my hand, crush it up [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1748077
Comments: 11
Kudos: 55





	only one i know

**Author's Note:**

> i've been begging the universe for a charli and fob collab; the universe answered back with the 100 gecs remix album; this is my way of thanking the universe. i've had this for a while now but i was originally going to post this when the fob remix dropped but the new charli album rly be making me feel some sort of way 🥺 and that feeling is depression

“Patrick,” Michael’s voice carries through the bathroom door, making Patrick jump out of his skin. Patrick forgets to reply, loses himself in his reflection; the way the blush in his chest spreads to all over his body is reflected in the motel bathroom mirror. Patrick opens his mouth to reply, but no sound comes out; instead, Patrick is stuck staring at his lips. Patrick gulps and he watches the way his Adam's apple bobs in his throat. Patrick is seeing himself in someone else’s eyes; that someone being Pete. At the thought of this, Patrick grips the edge of the bathroom sink, his knuckles turning white.

“Patrick!” Micheal says louder this time. Patrick could sense the urgency and concern in Michael's voice— if only he knew. “Are you alright in there?”

“Yeah,” Patrick replies, his voice sounds wrecked to his own ears; Patrick hopes Michael doesn’t hear it the same way.

Patrick’s gaze continues its scrutiny, face only growing warmer the longer he stared at his reflection— now was not the time for shyness or humility, he had to make sure everything looked perfect. Patrick’s pupils are blown, too vivid-blue almost black under the dim lights of the bathroom; his eyes are little black holes. Patrick’s gaze gets caught on his chest, his nipples erect; Patrick shivers, the memory of the feeling of pushing against the cold of the bathroom tiles floods his mind. Patrick’s dick is still half-hard under the attention from earlier, camera phone in the shower, his fingers and phone screen still sticky with the cheapest champagne he could find. Patrick can’t afford something like that, shouldn’t be spending money on things like that, but he was celebrating tonight. Patrick only does this when his horniness wins against his fear of intimacy and low self-esteem; also when he’s drunk, hence, the aforementioned champagne.

“Alright, we’re going to bed. Are you sure you’re alright with sleeping in the van tonight?”

“I’m sure.” Patrick replies and he holds his breath, waiting to hear the sound of Michael leaving finally before grabbing his phone again from on top of the bathroom sink.

It was a tough process picking out which photo to send to Pete; is it the close up of Patrick’s open mouth, his lips red because he was biting on them, trying to make it look the way it used to after making out with Pete after shows like tonight; the one with his neck stretched, tipped to show the pulse point that Pete liked to slide his teeth through, shower droplets dancing down his throat to the expanse of skin by his collarbones— he has collarbones now, new territory that Pete hasn’t sunk his teeth into; or should Patrick just go for the classic dick pick, his hands wrapped around his cock, a pearl of precum winking from his slit. Blood still rushing with alcohol and adrenaline, that pins and needles feeling of excitement mixed with nerves, Patrick decides on sending all three, Pete will appreciate it anyway; Patrick hopes he does.

 **Patrick:** _can i show you something?_

 **Patrick:** _i was thinking of you while i took them_

 **Pete:** _okay._

**_Patrick has sent three images_ **

**Patrick:** _would you like to hear my voice?_

* * *

Patrick adjusts his position, the last time he did this, he ended up waking up with dried cum on his t-shirt, a stiff neck, and a sore back; it was almost not worth it doing it again; he’s not nineteen anymore, maybe he should show a little bit more self-respect or maybe he should have shown a bit more skin in those pics he sent Pete— why isn’t Pete answering his calls. Patrick keeps the phone pressed between his cheek and shoulder, trying to push down the feelings of anxiety threatening from taking over; that would be unsexy.

Pete answers just after Patrick was about to give up. There is a metaphor, a cruel twist of luck, a recurring theme that Patrick will either, laugh or cry about later. Pete speaks up before Patrick can greet him.

“Jesus, Patrick. The picture you sent me...” Pete doesn’t so much as say it but exhale it in a throaty breath. The sound of Pete’s voice makes warmth pool in Patrick’s stomach and it slowly begins to spread all over. Patrick presses the heel of his hand on his cock, moaning softly as he feels his cock begin to get hard from underneath his trousers.

Patrick can’t help but wonder where Pete was to complete the picture in his head; was Pete back at home, a hand already in his boxers; or was Pete in a hotel room, still fully-dressed, the glare of hotel lights raining down on him. When Patrick thinks about it, he doesn’t know what city Pete is in right now, isn’t even sure if Pete is touring with Black Cards somewhere or back home with his mom in Wilmette; there’s more than state lines and timezones separating the two of them but that’s not something Patrick would like to focus on right now, his thoughts being pulled away by Pete groaning, “You’re driving me wild.”

This— this is why Patrick liked to call Pete during times like these: to make his brain quiet.

“Pete,” Patrick sighs as he presses harder, imagining Pete was here with him in the backseat of the tour van instead; the way things used to be, that is something Patrick knows, is familiar with. Hearing Pete’s voice, it’s easier for everything to come back to Patrick. Patrick remembers: summer fevered fingers touching him while Joe’s guitar case dug into his back; the soft murmur of Andy’s voice in the driver’s seat and the car radio louder than the quiet pants and sighs that Pete exhales whenever Patrick took Pete in his mouth; the smell of sweat, boy, sleeping bag, skin, Pete, Pete, Pete, Pete everywhere and it stuck to him no matter how much Patrick tried to clean up in whatever gas station bathroom they stopped at.

“Patrick, are we doing— this?” Pete catches himself, if they put a name to this, the magic would be ruined. Pete learned that the hard way when he said something he shouldn’t have the third time they did this. Patrick had dropped the call just as he was about to cum and didn’t call or answer Pete’s calls for a month (not to say it was a smart decision— Patrick was jacking off in motel showers and bar sinks). “Are you—?”

“I’m thinking of you.” is what Patrick says instead; it’s the truth anyway. Patrick slips his hand underneath his shirt, feels his warm skin as he ghosts his cold fingers on his chest; it is an electric feeling that leaves a trail of feelings like shallow vibrations. “I’m touching myself and wishing it’s you.”

Pete’s end is heavily silent for too long, and Patrick feels the fear begin to crawl up its way through his throat. What if this time, Pete decides that he doesn’t want to do this anymore?

“Pete?” Patrick asks against better judgement, his voice cracking a little. Patrick lets himself break down a little; it can’t hurt to; can’t hurt more than he already feels anyway. Patrick’s hand falls to his side; now he just feels small and cold, embarrassed.

There is silence for two heartbeats and then Pete sighs, “Are we really doing this?”

“It’s your choice.” Patrick answers honestly, and he hates himself for it, because adding feelings into this also ruins the magic. “I only want this if it’s something you want too.”

“I miss you.” is what Pete says in reply.

Patrick bites his tongue, smooths down his mouth into a firm line— he is not going to say it back.

“You don’t have to say it.” Pete says softly, reading Patrick’s mind, and if Patrick hears right, he could hear the way Pete shifts on the bed, the fumble and drop of his phone, the way Pete’s breathing gets louder as his phone is pressed closer to his mouth— God, Pete’s mouth. Just the thought of it makes Patrick harder again. “I know you do anyway.”

“Stop talking.” Patrick bites, even to his own ears it sounds too cruel. “The less you do, the faster this will be.”

Patrick presses his phone between his cheek and his shoulder again, closer so he could hear the way Pete breathed on the other line. Patrick began to struggle with his belt, and then he was struggling with his button and zipper, and then he was struggling with his pants as he tried to shrug them off. Distantly, Patrick hears the sound of Pete sighing softly.

“I miss you touching me.” Patrick admits, biting down on his lip, ghosting his fingers on the wet spot that was beginning to spread on his boxers; he was offering an apology for earlier, Pete would get it.

“I could still be touching you if you didn’t leave.”

“Pete.” Patrick says warningly. It is the first cruel thing Pete has said, the first he has said in a long time; tonight must have been a bad night to call; though it isn’t cruel as much as it is the truth.

Pete sighs, heavy on the other line and this was a total boner killer— Patrick was starting to realize what a bad idea this was and was about to end the call when Pete asks him, “How are you touching yourself?”

“Just teasing,” Patrick replies, lightly dragging his nails on his thighs aimlessly, his dick twitching at the direction their conversation was going. “My boxers are still on.”

“Just the way I used to do it?”

“Yeah, doesn't feel as good as your hands, though.”

Pete laughs at that, dark and almost mean. Patrick feels his dick harden at the sound— fuck the way sex with Pete aways leaves him softer, dizzy, vulnerable; all the biting power Patrick held over him was gone now. The first time this happened, it had also been too easy the way they hadn’t outgrown this weird codependency; that same thing that had ruined everything.

“You can touch your cock now, I know you like it when I tell you what to do.” Pete says, the dirty grin his mouth was twisted into heard in his voice, and then, “What do we say, baby?”

“Thank you,” Patrick mutters, rolling his eyes. Pete hasn’t outgrown his cheap porn lines, but Patrick’s dick hasn’t outgrown it either if the way it leaked precum meant anything. Patrick kicks his boxers off, this dull ache that flashes through his legs when he hits the back of the car seat. Patrick has twin bruises on his shins from the last time they did this and he had kicked too hard on the back of the seat; it shows what Patrick goes through just to get through to Pete. But the bruises were fading now and his dick was free, so it was easy to forget all the smaller details.

Patrick slowly glides his loose fist up and down his cock, palming the head, twisting his palm the way Pete used to do. The memory, the fleeting ghost of a feeling, makes Patrick moan out loud, dirty and toe-curling; there is lightning threatening to spill out of him the way this feels like a whole thunderstorm of feeling inside of him.

“Are you touching yourself too?” Patrick asks, and here, in the empty silence of the van, he could hear just how breathlessly desperate his voice sounds right now, and he’s barely even begun to touch himself seriously. It was so easy to fall back into a feeling from four years ago.

“‘Course I am.” Pete laughs, and now that he mentions it, Patrick could hear the same breathlessness in Pete's voice. It's a familiar sound, Patrick's heard it in the studio, his hotel room, dirty bar bathrooms. “You still sound like all my favorite songs.”

Patrick’s face goes warm at that and he bites his lip down hard to keep himself from moaning. Patrick loved it when Pete praised him, it was almost embarrassing how easy it was to toy with him after you've said a handful of nice things about him; he wasn’t sure if it was a side-effect of the low self-esteem or if he really was just a big narcissist; Patrick remembers Pete calling him that when Patrick asked for a hiatus.

“You biting down on your lip?” Pete asks with a small laugh, “I like to listen. Don’t hold yourself back.”

Patrick feels himself shudder, back arching off the seat, and he moans at that; can’t help but give it when Pete asks something from him. Patrick grips himself harder and begins to stroke faster, choked whines spilling out of his mouth.

“I miss that sound, I really do.” Pete says softly, “That’s the sound you made when I’d bite down on your thighs right before I blew you.”

Patrick could see it, could remember it, the way Pete hovered over his cock; sincere brown eyes and his mouth curled up to show all of his teeth. There had always been something there, in the way Pete looked like just before he went down. So in turn, Patrick began to love the feeling just before Pete went down more than the blowing itself; this Pavlovian response to Pete’s mouth that would get embarrassing during shows. Patrick shuts his eyes, tight, he doesn’t want to open them and see the dark instead of where Pete should be.

So Patrick pictures this instead: the slow way Pete moved his mouth up Patrick’s inner thigh; the gentle kisses Pete left every time he sunk his teeth into Patrick’s skin; Pete’s breath ghosting over his stomach; tongue teasingly licking down Patrick’s cock before grinning at Patrick— waiting for Patrick to say the magic words before he took him in.

“Please,” Patrick whines, still fisting his dick, “I need your mouth on me.”

“So polite,” Pete croons. “I got you, baby. I got you. Lick your palm, get it really, really wet. Can you do that for me? Get it so wet so you can imagine that’s my mouth on your cock.”

Patrick whines, this sound that rips itself from deep in his chest and it echoes through the empty van. It makes Pete laugh but it’s breathy and it gets caught in his throat the way it used to do when Patrick would bite down on his bottom lip to shut him up. Patrick began to stroke faster as he licked his other hand, moaning around his palm.

“Is your hand wet enough yet?” Pete asks him, voice breathless.

“It is.” Patrick moans as he begins to fist himself with his wet fist. The slide is smoother now, but it still wasn't the same as Pete's mouth; this doesn't stop Patrick from imagining it anyway. “What about you? What are you doing?”

“This isn’t about me.” Pete says, and Patrick could hear the fond smile in his voice; always out of place in vans like this, on hotel beds, anywhere where they could fit their bodies into. That smile was always this golden light over disaster like this; something like that couldn’t possibly belong to Patrick. “I just want to make you feel good.

“I wanna know, though.” Patrick gasps out. “I wanna see you.”

“Slow down, baby. We’re not rushing, we have all the time in the world.”

And Patrick wants to fight back, echo earlier when he was in power and tell Pete that he wanted this over with, but now that Pete had Patrick in the palm of his hand; Patrick never wanted this to stop. Patrick slows down, this agonizing pace that used to drive Patrick wild when Pete used to do it. Patrick’s stomach aches with it and he feels his muscles strain, grow taut, at the effort to not get this over with.

“How does my mouth feel?”

“Good.” Patrick grits out, his fist too gentle; it’s a ghost of a feeling the same way Pete was. “So, so good.”

Pete continues to murmur words of encouragement that make Patrick squirm; commanding Patrick what to do; it was almost like he was here again, whispering filth into his ear while they both tried to get off quietly because Joe and Andy were sleeping just a motel bed away. Pete blurred beneath Patrick’s eyelids, the way Pete’s mouth stretched around his cock, Pete’s tongue licking the slit, the gentle way Pete would suck on the tip of Patrick’s cock, the way Pete’s brown always met Patrick’s eyes, never looking away, even as the back of Pete’s throat hit Patrick’s dick.

“Wanna taste you.” Patrick slurs, dizzy with the rush.

Pete laughs, but this one isn’t mean, “Okay, I’ll give it to you since you’ve been such a good boy. Hands off your cock, I want you squirming.”

Patrick’s hands tremble as he pulls it away from his cock; he only realized now how hard and close he was, he can almost taste it. It tastes like this: the salt of Pete’s neck, it burns in the way Pete’s body is always so warm, there is the aftertaste of guilt there at the back of Patrick’s throat.

“Where do you want my hands?” Patrick asks, voice torn apart like he’s been screaming; his voice is going to sound so fucked for tomorrow night’s show.

“Can you put two fingers in your mouth for me?” Pete asks gently, Patrick’s toes curl and his back arches just at the sound of it; this is the way Pete used to whisper in his ear right before he fucked him. “I want you to blow me, baby.”

Patrick keens at that, high and needy, this sound that rips itself from his throat; he sounds desperate even to his own ears; but that’s how Pete liked him. Patrick slips the fingers in his mouth, rolls his tongue around his digits; Patrick tastes like salt but he doesn’t taste like Pete— the bittersweet taste of precum and moments like this. Patrick makes it loud, sloppy, it would be gross but he hears the way Pete pants and groans from his phone so Patrick doesn’t care.

“I’ve missed this.” Pete gasps out. “I miss the way you looked; your messy hair, your red mouth, that wild look in your eyes that I only ever see when you’re on stage and when you’re riding my cock— fuck. Patrick, you’re so fucking hot.”

Patrick doesn’t reply with anything more than thrusting his fingers down his throat and gagging on it— Pete moans at the sound of that so Patrick does it again. Patrick sucks on the tips of his fingers, loud and messy the way Pete used to like it. Patrick licks his fingers, because maybe if he tried hard enough, then maybe it would feel like the real thing. Everything Patrick does is a memory, this thing that they used to do.

Patrick knows he should feel stupid, embarrassed, ashamed, but his dick is still hard and there’s that pull in the bottom of his stomach that’s almost painful. Patrick missed this too, or at least the real thing. Patrick tries to remember it, Pete’s fingers in his hair; the feeling of Pete’s skin underneath his nails, little crescent moons in the way Patrick digs them in; the choked off gasps that Pete makes when Patrick takes him in deep; the way Pete’s hips couldn’t help thrust up whenever Patrick teased his tongue to taste him.

“Go gentle on yourself.” Pete says, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Patrick realizes that it’s getting harder to remember; what color did Pete’s skin glow like underneath car lights, had he glowed gold or blue? Did Pete ever pull on his hair or did he just card his fingers through it? Was Pete as rough as Patrick pushed his fingers in his mouth harder, or had Pete been gentle and slow? What stuff was made from dreams and what was made by Pete himself; and which is better, the truth or the half-lies Patrick tells himself; which tastes sweeter? Patrick’s heart would ache, a physical ache, what could have been a pull from his chest, but Patrick just feels empty.

“Pete,” Patrick slurs, pulling his fingers away. Patrick is surprised to feel tears in his eyes-- isn’t sure why they were there. Patrick doesn’t want to think about it.

“Yeah, baby?” Pete asks, attentive, and there is a softness to his voice; tender and careful like he heard everything Patrick was feeling and thinking in the way Patrick had said his name. Pete is good at that.

( _Pete_ , Patrick had whispered; the first time they kissed.

 _Pete_ , Patrick had moaned; that time Pete fucked him after girlfriend #12 broke up with him.

 _Pete_ , Patrick had laughed; that time Pete pretended to come out to everyone in the band.

The absence of his name, _Pete_ , that time Patrick asked for a hiatus; if he said Pete’s name, he would never have the courage to break the band up.)

“Patrick, what do you need?” Pete asks him, and his voice is gentle and it pulls at every single nerve ending Patrick has because Patrick feels it as much as he hears it; it feels a lot like what being pulled by the heart strings should feel like.

“I need—” Patrick replies, voice breaking, I need you here. “I need to cum.”

“Okay, okay, okay.” Pete exhales. “Put your hand back on that big cock of yours. Think of my mouth again.”

“Pete.” Patrick chokes out, his head falling to the side, toes curling, as he began to fist himself earnestly.

“Wish I could taste you,” Pete continues, voice strained, he was close too, “you always tasted so much better after a show.”

“You saw me tonight?” Patrick chokes out. Patrick thinks of Pete in the audience, watching Patrick roll his hips and moan around songs; wonders if Pete could see how Patrick had been imagining his hot breath on the back of his neck and his rough hands all over him. Patrick wonders what Pete thinks of him now as he fists himself, harder, faster. A flicker of a fire blooms in the bottom of Patrick’s stomach.

“Saw videos of you on Twitter.” Pete admits, a choked off groan echoes from Pete’s side of the phone line. “Would you like that? Would you want me to watch you?”

Patrick doesn’t answer except for a torn whimper, there is a shooting pain mixed with the pleasure that rides through his spine. Pete catches it and he laughs, breathless and dirty; Patrick’s back arches off the seat as he hears it; nothing is ever enough when he’s here on the edge of cumming like this.

“I want to hear you come apart.” Pete urges. Patrick keeps his eyes shut, he is dizzy and he can’t think of anything except Pete and Pete’s voice and how much he wished this was all real. Patrick puts his fist back on his weeping dick and slides it fast; it’s sticky, messy. Memories of Pete blur beneath Patrick's eyelids as he tries to get off on them and the sound of Pete's voice. “You can let go now, baby ”

At that, Patrick finally does. Patrick is a trembling, whining mess that has been reduced to only knowing how to shape his mouth around Pete’s name. Patrick feels cum splatter across his stomach and it feels way too much Patrick’s still riding on the high of his orgasm, milking it for all its worth, Patrick thinks of Pete, biting down on his shoulder; his dick inside Patrick; the warmth of it; everything about it. Distantly, Patrick hears the rough sound of Pete groaning into his ear and it makes the dark backseat of the van burst into white light.

Patrick opens his eyes, spent, orgasm gone, the fuzzy feeling that horniness left him fading into the sweaty hot air of the backseat. What had felt too much earlier now faded into a gaping emptiness in his chest. Patrick’s limbs feel like lead, too heavy, this is why he doesn’t end the call as soon as he came; that’s what he’s convincing himself anyway when Pete interrupts the silence with an obnoxious laugh.

“You really needed that, huh.” Pete says with another laugh, always so cocky after fucking. There was a time when Patrick found it annoying, and then it had twisted into an endearing sort of hate for it, now Patrick just keeps quiet.

“Don’t worry. I needed it too.” Pete says softly; a new development. Pete’s voice is the morning after, it is sunlight spilling through the dirty van windshield or through hotel windows, it is the same sweet and genuine as the time Pete had made Patrick pancakes in bed. Patrick lets him talk, Pete’s always been a sucker for the pillow talk as much as the actually fucking, Patrick can give him conversation. Patrick can give him this one thing even if he feels a growing hot resentment begin in the bottom of his stomach the same place where his orgasm had started.

“Shut up.” Patrick grunts out, but there’s no heat behind it. Patrick should try harder in pushing Pete away— but then, not that far, far enough that he could still seek out Pete’s body in the dark and quiet of backseats; that should be enough for him.

“He speaks! So, I didn’t fuck the voice out of you. That would have been a tragedy.”

“I’m going to end the call now.”

Patrick listens to Pete breathe on the other line, heavy and waiting to see if Patrick really would. It sends a specific sort of terrible thrill up Patrick’s spine, that Pete would wait, that Pete was still here. Patrick doesn’t do it.

“I didn’t even get to fuck your ass.” Pete tries, teasing, testing the waters, his voice like warm honey, sweet and slow, even if his words were another story. Patrick remembers laughing at Pete's shitty dirty jokes that always left him feeling cheap and used; Patrick feels the same way but there's an emptiness now too. For once, Patrick wished Pete wouldn’t treat everything like a joke.

“Goodnight, Pete.” Patrick replies curtly, he’s going to put an end to it now before it got messy all over again. It’s best to keep Pete wanting more, that way, he’ll always pick up the phone whenever Patrick called him; Pete taught Patrick that at nineteen, it’s how he got girls he said.

“Patrick.” Pete says, his voice going quiet again, but this one was late night calls whenever Pete couldn’t sleep, this was rocks thrown at Patrick’s window when Pete would ask him to go on a night drive to any diner that would take them, this was that very first kiss they shared. It’s shyness and vulnerability and Patrick thinks this is the only time that Pete wasn’t performing for anyone; this was just Pete.

“Can you stay on the phone?” Pete asks him, his voice still so small. “Can this not end?”

Patrick sighs and his finger hovers over the end call for a full five seconds, staring hard at the glaring red button on the bottom of his screen. Pete didn’t deserve this; in the two ways Patrick could mean this: Pete didn’t deserve Patrick’s kindness, but then Pete didn’t deserve Patrick’s resentment either. Patrick feels his eyes sting and he quickly rubs at them before Pete could ask. Patrick is sure Pete would be able to tell if he’s been crying from the way he breathed.

Patrick doesn’t answer Pete, but he doesn’t drop the call either. Patrick, against better judgement, keeps the phone close to his ear to listen to Pete. The other line is tense, almost quiet and Patrick imagines Pete holding his breath and waiting for Patrick to make a decision. They stay on the line like that, breathing, quiet, and it feels the same way it did back in 2007 even if circumstances were different now. Slowly, the air begins to thin, smooth over into something light. Patrick isn’t sure if it was him or Pete who began to breathe easier; doesn’t know which one would be worse. Time passes and Patrick feels his eyelids grow heavier, but he fights against sleep, waiting to hear the familiar sound of Pete’s steady breathing whenever he slept; it’s a sound that Patrick still finds himself looking for whenever he wakes up in the middle of the night, looking for somebody that wasn’t there.

“Thanks.” Pete says his voice barely above a whisper; this voice was passenger seats, midnight drives to the next city, voice soft so that Joe and Andy wouldn’t hear his secrets even though they were both already long gone behind them. “You can go to sleep, you don’t need to stay up for me.”

Contrary to the overwhelming amount of evidence, Patrick still likes to believe that he doesn’t like to listen to Pete, has never liked it, would rather lose his voice or break up a band than listen to something Pete asked of him; and it’s a good thing only of one of those two things has happened but for some reason, it doesn’t feel like a good thing right now. Patrick wants to tell Pete that he wasn’t staying up for him and that he wasn’t sleepy, but Patrick feels his eyelids grow heavy, darkness pulling him in before he could open his mouth.

Patrick wakes up the next morning, dawn barely breaking through the sky, much less through the van windows, the dull but piercing glow of sunlight still softer than the harsh lights of street lamps. There is dried cum on Patrick’s shirt, a piercing pain in his neck and back from sleeping the wrong way, and his phone had run out of battery. Staring out the window, eyes fixated on the neon lights of the motel's sign, Patrick promises himself last night wouldn’t happen again— not the sex, Patrick needs that. What Patrick means was the second part, of listening to Pete breathe and pretending he was right next to him.

**Author's Note:**

> i found out writing pwp fixes my writer’s block lol so this might be a lil collection of hiatus fics in the same vein as this hope i can make that happen but i hope u enjoyed this anyway 🥺👉🏽👈🏽 also can anyone confirm if patrick really did sleep in cars during soul punk shows bc he couldn’t afford a room or did i read that in a fic and just accepted it as something that happened irl kjnbdkjfb anyway thank u for reading ! hope you're all safe and well right now :)
> 
> talk to me on [tumblr](https://supersfade.tumblr.com/) !!


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